


Endgame

by ladyharker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season 1 Spoilers, The Great Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyharker/pseuds/ladyharker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have their back against the wall while Moriarty currently holds the winning hand; and it would seem there he's making sure there's little chance of the pair surviving the encounter.<br/>- continuation of the Great Game</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endangered

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my fanfiction page.  
> Started after the first series and developed before the Great Game's cliffhanger was solved this January.

"And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Jim Moriarty's harsh smile was so cruel, so shameless and so terrifyingly sincere it made Sherlock ill to look at it, but it disappeared as he spoke now replaced by an unrelenting smugness of someone who knows he's won, whatever else happens.

Although Sherlock had remained detached from the thought of peoples' lives in danger people had still been threatened, people had still been hurt, some people had actually _died_ and that wasn't something that he could just dismiss. This...thing before him had performed cold-blooded murder lord-knew how many times before and right now Sherlock was the only one standing in the way of a new victim joining the body count. And in all truth that responsibility did not rest easy upon the man's shoulders.

Partly it was because people who had once depended on him had been killed, although it was an incident that he would never admit to anyone; partly it was because he could quite clearly see the 'next victim' just in his peripheral vision stood behind Moriarty watching their discussion with a combination of fear, anger and regret; but mainly it was because said person, currently the latest to be strapped into a jacket loaded with explosives, was John Watson, friend and flatmate to Sherlock. This personal aggravation gave more reason to the already more-than-well-justified gun that was directed at the criminal's head. Yet one wrong move and John, and more than likely himself, would be but the first in a continued killing spree and yet this man, this 'consulting criminal', simply stood there grinning away as though it were some great game to him.

Sherlock's finger was resting against the trigger and he knew that just a simple squeeze with his finger and the whole thing could be over but both he and Moriarty knew he would never do it, knew he wouldn't dare, not while he was using John as a form of human shield. The explosives on the jacket into which John had been forced would be detonated before that smarmy git ever hit the floor. No, Moriarty currently held the winning hand and executing the man would do nothing but worsen the situation for all parties involved. Maybe it was the knowledge of this fact, and there was no doubt that Moriarty knew it, which had given the criminal his self-assured swagger as he'd slowly sauntered his way towards Sherlock.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch you...later." He made perfectly sure that the barrel didn't waver from the centre of Jim's forehead ready, and more than willing, to squeeze the trigger should the need arise as the man turned and began to exit through a side door to the pool.

He called out in a ridiculously high and mocking, almost sing-song, voice just before the heavy metal door slammed behind him. "No you won't!" The resounding clang echoed round the room, mixing somewhat haphazardly with the splashing of water as it lapped at the edges of the pool.

The gun sight didn't move, nor did Sherlock; he wasn't wholly convinced that their 'friend' was gone for good. It took a glance at John's bulking coat and his very pale face to convince the man to move. Less than a few seconds and he'd crossed the space between himself and John, discarding the gun on the floor. Sinking to one knee he began to undo the buttons of the death jacket. If Moriarty _was_ coming back, and something was telling Sherlock he would, having John in a slightly less dangerous position would certainly make things somewhat easier. "Alright?" The buttons were sticking and it was all Sherlock could do to stop himself tearing the thing apart to free his friend; and as much of a sociopath as he was, Sherlock did consider John a friend.

"Are you alright!" John's knees were beginning to buckle slightly; most likely because all the adrenaline was rushing out of his system, give it another minute and he'd possibly be close to collapsing. Mind you, noticed Sherlock, he didn't look far from that now.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Once he'd opened it, Sherlock grabbed at the collar and harshly dragged it off John who protested somewhat at the force, but he ignored it focusing instead on getting the man free. Once John's arms were clear of the sleeves, the doctor staggered forward slightly and Sherlock threw the coat, flinging it as far down the poolside with as much strength as he could physically muster. The weight of the thing helped to propel it across the wet floor before it came to a stop at the far end of the pool where Moriarty had been stood moments before. Convincing himself that that position would have to do for now, Sherlock picked up the gun and darted down the short corridor the criminal had left through. He wrenched open the door but saw nothing; as he suspected.

It was pointless to go after him; if he was going he'd have some sort of getaway vehicle set up and could be miles away in mere minutes. Chasing after him would be ridiculous and a pointless waste of time. He turned and walked purposefully towards the pool before turning to head towards the entrance Moriarty had come through. He gave up on that thought quickly though. This man was maticulate in his 'art'. There would be nothing to go on.

Part of him ached to go after him, to stop him before things got further out of hand and more people died.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock turned from his pacing that he'd started to see John half crouched by one of the changing stalls looking less pale than before but breathing heavily. He'd almost collapsed, as Sherlock had suspected would happen, and now seemed to teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Fine." He wasn't fine. Moriarty couldn't be gone. There was something that didn't fit in this picture. Something wasn't right. "Fine." He took the gun away from the back of his head as he realised he'd been using it to try and calm himself down a bit; it wasn't working. "That, er...thing that you, er...that you did with..." he cleared his throat. "...you offered to do, that was, um...good."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?" He was still pacing; more on the spot than before but still pacing, partly to work off the adrenaline that was still in his own bloodstream and also to try and reassure himself that they were okay.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool." he drew his cardigan closer round himself. "People might talk."

"People do little else." Sherlock glanced at John leaning back against the stand between the cubicles and smiled. They'd made it. They were okay.

John had begun to stand up when the laser sight appeared on his chest again. Seeing it the doctor slid back down while a sound behind Sherlock proved his instinct to be correct. He hadn't gone.

As the door opened, an all-too-familiar voice called out, drowning out John's curse. "Sorry, boys!" Loud, shrill, obnoxious; it was almost as though it had never left. "I'm _sooo_ changeable."

Another laser sight had appeared pointing at Sherlock's own chest. His eyes traveled up to the gallery where he'd reasoned the first sniper had been when he first knew of their presence. The second had to be up there. Taking two steps towards the swimming pool he scanned the darkness in an attempt to make them out. With the small gun in his hand he could at least take one of them out before the other one could fire giving either himself or John that little extra chance of survival.

"It is a weakness with me but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness."

There were more than two laser sights coming down from the gallery and a small sideways look at John confirmed he had three of them trained on his chest. No doubt the other three were making a similar pattern on his own chest; they were both in this until the end; no magical escape.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Moriarty's voice sounded the most serious it would probably ever get and Sherlock saw the mild panic develop on John's face as he raised his head. "I'd try to convince you, but..." he let out a slight laugh and Sherlock searched frantically within his own head for a solution. It was just another problem and every problem had a solution; there was _never_ an exception to that rule, it just sometimes took longer to figure it out and time was definitely something he was running out of. "...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

And that was when he found it. The solution. It wasn't perfect; it wasn't ideal; and it certainly wasn't clever; but it _would_ work.

He turned to John. The former military doctor recently returned from Afghanistan had a job. He had a sister, a girlfriend...a life. If this went wrong, it was John who had the most to lose.

There was no way he could communicate his idea without speaking out loud and alerting their attackers but he'd been reliably informed that when an idea entered his head an unmistakable glint sparkled in his eye. True, that had been under less strenuous circumstances when his own life, as well as the life of someone he didn't consider _entirely_ idiotic, wasn't in dire jeopardy but he really needed the element of surprise in this.

John's eyes met his for barely a small second. Then... It was so small, so slight that anyone who wasn't looking for it wouldn't notice but there was no doubt that that...was a nod...and that was all he needed.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock swung round and pointed the handgun at Moriarty once again, feeling all too wary of the laser sights on his back.

As he lowered the gun he saw Moriarty's smirk grow until Sherlock's gaze fell towards the bomb situated four feet in front of the villain's feet.

The amount of explosives on the jacket would most likely be small, designed to just kill John in the event that Sherlock didn't 'behave' or decided to call Jim's bluff. There was no way that he would risk his own life by coming that close to John so long as there was a possibility that Sherlock wouldn't be fazed by John's predicament.

But then again, Moriarty may have got a bit cocky. Put on enough to take out both of them should the need, or worryingly, the opportunity arise.

Either way there wouldn't be enough explosives within the jacket to cause more than minor structural damage to the swimming pool. There shouldn't. Sherlock could be wrong; but it was too late for that now.

He looked up at Moriarty. The criminal was smirking at him, trying to call his bluff.

His smug look of confidence began to fade as Sherlock squeezed the trigger.

The heat was intense and the power of the blast shook the ground with a resounding BOOM! that tore up the tile floor and threw the shards high into the air while tossing the water over the other edge of the pool.

Sherlock, who had been stood within five feet of the jacket, was thrown back with such force that he knew instantly, he had greatly underestimated Moriarty's arrogance.

Intense pain erupted in Sherlock's left shoulder as it made contact with the concrete edge of the pool before he was plunged into the water. He was quickly swallowed up by the water as he sank like a stone touching the bottom in mere seconds. Swimming ought to have been high on his list of priorities but he was somewhat preoccupied by another more pressing thought.

Snipers.

Six of them to be precise, all of them in the gallery, around twelve to fourteen feet above ground level and save being slightly shaken would be largely unaffected by the explosion. It was only a matter of time before they regained themselves and began shooting.

Seven seconds after Sherlock shot the bomb; five seconds after he made contact with the water; two seconds after he hit the bottom of the pool; and one second after his thoughts turned to the snipers, bullets began to tear through the water, narrowly missing him by inches and embedding themselves deep into the floor.

He had to move.

Paralysing pain seared through his left shoulder as he tried to use his arms to propel himself upwards through the water but he had to ignore it ; he was running out of oxygen. Kicking off from the floor, he thrust himself up through the over-chlorinated water. He gasped at the air once he'd broken the surface but quickly he turned his attention to the snipers. In the water he was too vulnerable a target and could be peppered with bullets within seconds. Except he wasn't.

The gallery was devoid of the red warning lights that had been there barely a minute ago. It was dark; silent; seemingly devoid of life.

Sherlock ran through what had happened in his head again and realised that after the initial wave of bullets there had been no more shots. The fact that he had not noticed this before surprised Sherlock but was understandable.

"Sherlock!"

He twisted in the water at the voice from the poolside. Thankfully John was alive if a bit worse for wear.

A minor head wound; sat with his legs beside him; holding himself up with his left arm, which was shaking considerably; some form of shock most likely. John's cry had sounded muffled; possibly in pain from some injury that wasn't initially visible and trying, unsuccessfully, to mask it.

The doctor seemed a considerable distance away and it seemed that Sherlock had been buffeted by the water to almost the other side of the pool.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." He started to try and swim across. It wasn't a very large pool but when it had to be crossed by a rapidly tiring man it certainly seemed wider than your average swimming pool. It was difficult; his left arm was practically out of action as most attempts to use it in aiding propulsion caused the pain in his shoulder to intensify.

When he reached the side he found John's hand thrust in his face. He looked up at the doctor in a short moment of thought before he took the hand. John tightened his grip and used his other hand to help him haul the detective out of the water.

You had to admire his strength; for one thing Sherlock, skinny as he was, wasn't exactly a lightweight, especially now that his clothes had soaked up at least some water. Thank god he hadn't been wearing his outdoor coat. Also the pool water had reduced a good few inches below what it would normally be meaning John wasn't getting the little bit of extra help that would give him.

Once Sherlock could get his leg up onto the side John grabbed at his back and pulled him up so that Sherlock was on his hands and knees before settling back in a sitting position.

"You okay?" Repeated question. Possible shock, or maybe concussion; then again he could just be worried.

"Fine." Sherlock knew that John wouldn't believe that for a second and sure enough the qualified doctor who had previous experience with explosions and the like was at his side.

"Why don't I believe you?" he said as he helped Sherlock over to lean against the door of one of the closed, locked cubicles.

He had to admit it was certainly more comfortable than the canine-like position he had occupied before. It also gave him the opportunity to do a small self-assessment of his injuries.

There was the shoulder, obviously; his muscles ached from the temporary lack of oxygen and the shock of being thrown into the water; mild headache but little other in the general head area which at least meant he most likely didn't have concussion and Sherlock couldn't help but feel that was a good thing.

"It made an awful noise."

"What?" Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and found John had drawn back having satisfied himself that Sherlock wasn't in need of immediate medical attention.

"Your shoulder."

"Oh." He hadn't heard a noise but it was highly unlike something such as bone connecting with concrete wouldn't make one.

"How is it?"

Incredibly painful. "Fine. Just a bit sore."

John looked almost as though he wasn't sure whether he believed that or not but settled back against the cubicle beside Sherlock and let his head fall back.

"I thought you had a _plan_."

"What?"

"You could have _killed_ us."

"Whereas if I _hadn't_ acted we would have been perfectly alright?"

John ignored his comment and rubbed his head by the cut he had sustained in the explosion, flinching as he accidentally caught it. "You weren't _trying_ to kill us, were you?"

"What?"

"Oh never mind."

"All that happened was I somewhat...underestimated the threat."

"Yeah." John scoffed. "I can see that."

Following John's gaze, Sherlock saw the sizable pit at the far end of the pool where the jacket had been; the water from the pool had already spread to fill the extra space created. Even a few of the cubicles had been ripped to shreds while two or three had disappeared completely.

Staring at the wall, a wayward thought entered his head. "Moriarty?"

"I didn't see him." The sudden tiredness present in John's voice made Sherlock turn to see the doctor cradling his head.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. I guess." Suddenly aware of his audience, John took away his hand and shrugged. "Few cuts and bruises. No major damage."

Sherlock looked him up and down and came to a similar conclusion. Most likely his worst injury was the possibly developing concussion. Satisfied, he turned to the wall where the criminal had been stood just minutes before.

Moriarty had got away; and he was going to kill again; and again; and again. And there would be no knowing whether he was truly behind it or not. If he was, they'd never find the proof.

"You really shouldn't go to sleep, John."

"I know, Sherlock." Yet John didn't move to open his eyes which had slowly drawn themselves closed.

"Then wake up."

John didn't respond that time; if he was ignoring Sherlock this was the worst possible time.

"John." he shifted his weight so he was able to tap the man on the face. "Wake up, John!"

Gently tapping him on the face did nothing and even increased pressure heralded the same outcome. From experience Sherlock believed that this was a sure sign that worrying would be a reasonable course of action. Not necessarily helpful, but perfectly reasonable.

"Come on, John!"

"Stand up."

He froze as that horrifyingly familiar voice came from behind him; and it was at this point the Sherlock realised he'd lost the gun in the water. You didn't need to be clever to figure out there was most likely a gun pointed at the back of his head.

"Stand up." Slowly and carefully, he stood up taking care not to make any sudden movements. "Turn around. Slowly!" He did as he was told, feeling a fool for giving in so easily.

He finished up facing Moriarty but found a handgun pointed straight at the middle of his head. Yet there was something he saw that he couldn't help but smile at.

He'd managed to make Jim Moriarty bleed.

Unfortunately the blood running down the side of his head was the only injury he'd appeared to have sustained and it had done nothing to dent that sickening grin of his which grew as his eyes flickered to the still form of John.

"Oh I do hope he's not dead." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Moriarty laughed. "I mean...that would just _spoil_ all the fun."


	2. Ingenuity

Sherlock had lost count of the times he had been held at gunpoint by a desperate criminal.

The barter system was simple; he would live if they were free to go; but most were simply desperate men who merely wanted to remain free. Wife, kids, money; it was merely a matter of finding their standpoint, their one good thing in life and convincing them to give up their fruitless attempt at freedom.

Then there were the times when the gunman had nothing to lose. Those ones would get away...temporarily. Usually they would disappear for a few days, try to lay low. But guys like that had friends in low places whose feathers would get distinctly ruffled by their near capture essentially placing themselves in the firing line. Leaving them with their only option; to get away, as far and as fast as possible. But they panic and become sloppy; they fail to think everything through leaving a trail of breadloaves that even an idiot like Lestrade would be able to follow. All of them are found within a week; most of them alive.

From the eyes, and the smile, Sherlock knew that this man didn't fall into either category.

"That little stunt was... _surprisingly_ stupid. Especially for you." Genuine disappointment weighed heavy on Moriarty's words and his face as his eyes fell to the floor. It didn't last though as his annoying smirk returned. "Tell me, what did you expect to accomplish?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Already his mind was too preoccupied with running through every possible outcome of any attempt to disarm Moriarty. So far, all of them seemed to end in his death and he had yet to factor in handicaps such as his out-of-action shoulder and John's safety. Not encouraging.

"Overall you've rather played this in my favour. " His eyes flicked up to Sherlock for a moment before settling on something behind him. "Lessened my workload, so to speak"

Sherlock didn't need to follow the gaze to know the focus of its attention. Resolutely he kept his eyes on the gun, unwilling to give his opponent the satisfaction of turning to confirm what he already knew.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" Moriarty chuckled dryly, the sound cracking in the air and curling his lips up into a maddening grin. "Starting to feel the heat?"

Despite his vast knowledge, Sherlock Holmes was not a medical man. John was, at the very least, seriously injured; and, although he normally doubted it, there was a distinct possibility that he was dying. Either way, he was only here because of Sherlock's own inability to recognise the risk posed to his flatemate. Ipso facto Sherlock was accountable for everything that happened to the doctor in this encounter that didn't seem to want to end. So, feeling the heat...?

"You're not going to shoot me." It was said with less conviction than he would have cared for. Now Moriarty would know he was right.

Moriarty grimaced mockingly. "Yeah, I am."

"In the last week you've held five people hostage; you've cut several people loose; not to mention thirty million pounds; and you've waved it all in the face of the police." Interest flashed in his eyes and Sherlock knew he'd intrigued the man. "Any one else would think this annoying, tiresome and intrusive, but you..." Sherlock shook his head slightly. "You _want_ to kill me but you're looking at the bigger picture. I can't see it yet myself but if you were going to shoot me you'd have done it already." Moriarty's smile slipped as Sherlock stared at him defiantly.

"How...insightful." Reluctantly he lowered the gun keeping his finger on the trigger; he glanced at it momentarily before looking up again. "I'm surprised I expected anything less from you."

"But there's something I can't figure out." Moriarty didn't seem to be a man who would waste his own time. Other people's most definitely but never his own; he was too self-important. "If you're not here to kill me, why _are_ you here?"

That awful playful grin grew back pulled wider than before by light-hearted laughter that escaped his lips. "To kill John Watson of co-."

"Don't." Even joking about that was twisted, and he _was_ joking.

Moriarty fell silent, his smile once again disappearing momentarily as he took a deep breath. "There's one thing you need to know, Sherlock. About me." He took two careful steps forward until he was mere centimetres away from Sherlock's own face. "I _always_ have a contingency plan... I _never_ give up... And I always, _always_ win."

"That's three things. Learn to count."

The consulting criminal looked about ready to scorn Sherlock but thought better of it and merely drew back. "Some food for thought." He turned away, walking down the side of the swimming pool . Each footstep clicked harshly against the tiled floor and echoed around the room, almost like someone was tapping a pen on the table just to annoy whoever was listening. "Oh, and Sherlock? You were wrong." He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the small side corridor through which he had first exited. "This." He reached up and indicated where he was bleeding. " _This_ , I'm going to shoot you for. Someday."

One final flash of that hateful grin and he was leaving.

Sherlock waited, listening intently for the slamming of that door, unwilling to believe this over until he was sure that Moriarty was truly gone. There was a resounding clang as he left once more and Sherlock silently let out the breath he had been holding.

There was something about that man that set Sherlock's teeth on edge; but never, so long as he still had breath in his body, would he ever confess to anyone what he knew it to be. For, yes, he knew the source but it would not do for the wider world to know what he saw in that man. Absent-mindedly he reached up to his left shoulder as it throbbed again.

With the immediate threat gone, Sherlock was able to focus his attention on more important facts. For example the fact that John wasn't actually unconscious.

"Let's stop this charade now shall we, John?" he called to the figure on the floor behind him. "Before things take another turn for the worse."

Sure enough, he sensed movement behind him as John sat forward accompanied by an appropriate groan at the exertion. "How did you know?"

"Several clues, your breathing for one; too regular and much too shallow." The truth was he hadn't known to begin with, until there was an almost inaudible sigh of relief which escaped John's lips once their attacker was gone. "It was a good plan."

There was a pause in which Sherlock imagined the man behind him scrunching up his eyes in confusion. "But he didn't say anything."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grow a smirk as he turned round to his companion. "Quite the contrary, I believe he told us a great deal."

Madness, was what John's gaze said as he looked up at Sherlock. It disappeared as he shook his head. "Whatever." An attempt to push himself to his feet failed as his hand slipped on the wet floor and he banged his head on the cubicle. "How's your shoulder?" he said grinding his teeth.

"Slight soreness. Should be alright so long as I don't overdo it." Any movement caused his muscles to tense up resulting more in discomfort than pain, much like contracting leg muscles as proper blood supply is returned allowing to nerves to send impulses again. "How's your head?"

John breathed in harshly through his nose. "Bloody painful."

For less than a second John and Sherlock caught each other's eye and burst into silent, shallow-breathed laugter; later, Sherlock would declare it a combination of adrenaline, strenuous circumstances and stretched nerves but for a few moments it helped release the tension that had built.

Once the laughing eased, Sherlock held out his right hand to help the doctor to his feet, realising the irony in the act as John took it and, with his help, heaved himself up.

...

Sherlock stiffened. The hair on the back of his neck bristled and his grip on John's hand tightened.

"What?" Unsurprisingly, the sudden change was picked up on by his colleague who's eyes immediately turned to the wall behind Sherlock. "Sherlock, what is it?"

...

His ears were straining to hear it but there was a sound; it was small; a fair way off and impossible to discern but it wasn't likely to be DI Lestrade and the idiotic boys in blue come to their rescue. For one thing, Sherlock hadn't told them what he was doing, where he was going or even what it involved. For another, even if he had, they'd probably still be up to their ears in traffic, or paperwork, or...coffee and nowhere near achieving any real police work.

..boom..

That time he heard it. Which meant it was getting louder; which meant it was getting closer; which couldn't be in any way, good.

..BOOM..

He practically threw John's hand away, although the doctor didn't pay it much attention, now able to hear the noise as well.

Two long strides down the poolside and Sherlock could see the goalposts that sat at the front of the small enclave on the far wall clearer. There for the younger swimmers sessions; set up for some form of water football or something where one particularly strong child always threw the ball with such ferocity into the top right corner that the net was beginning to pull away from the bar. He took in all of this in less than a second but all of it was irrelevant.

..BOOM..

What _was_ important was the way the net had twitched with the last few explosions. Even more important was the fact that the frame was starting to shake with it and each noise made the shaking become more and more violent.

..BOOM!..

"We need to get out of here."

"What?"

Sherlock ignored the doctor's confused words, instead taking a few steps back as he turned his back on the growing explosions. For that's what they were; smaller than the one Sherlock had started but unmistakable; explosions; and they were getting closer.

"Out!" He grabbed John's arm, turning him around and steered him towards the way that he had originally come in however long ago it was; he didn't have the time to look at his watch.

BOOM!

This explosion was followed by a deafening smashing sound as the back of the small enclave were blasted out into the room while it simultaneously caused the door that Jim had come through to collapse.

"Run!"

John's arm was pulled out of his grip to better aid the doctor's momentum which was fine, it gave Sherlock the oppurtunity to focus more on his own speed. He managed to reach the door first, opening it and taking a step through just before the next explosion.

But only just.

**BOOM!**

\-----------------------------------------------------

It was John's turn to be blown backwards.

The force didn't throw him far, barely more than a foot where he landed on his side. Throbbing pain shot through his entire head, paralysing his thoughts for a moment as his head made contact with the floor.

He was going to wake up with one killer of a headache after this; of course presuming he got out of here to sleep.

Slowly his thoughts caught up with his memory. Sherlock had been going through the door when...when an explosion on the _other side_...oh, shit!

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, he sat up to see the carnage that had moments before been a doorway. Practically the entire thing had come down, bringing down part of the gallery with it and a lot of dust was beginning to settle. But the thing that was most obvious, most ridiculous and most terrifying was everything had come down on that idiot.

"SHERLOCK!"


	3. Ensnared

Sherlock's plan had been to stay ahead of the explosions, convinced, as he was, that they were lining the room; why else would the rifles have withheld their fire after the bomb jacket exploded?

Yet in the split second between his opening the door and the detonation, Sherlock realised how much he had underestimated this adversary.

The snipers had stopped their barrage of bullets in order to set the charges and vacate the building while Moriarty's second showing was to ensure the two 'meddlers' stayed in the room and didn't discover the detonators.

This room, the room where he had killed Carl Powers, held such memories for Moriarty. It stood as a trophy for his first victory against Sherlock all those years ago, as a testament now to his self-assured brilliance and annoying smug attitude. Damaged as it was, this room was far too important in Moriarty's twisted mind to be destroyed.

The explosions were aimed to take out all the doorways, sealing them in.

Upon this realisation, Sherlock just had time to raise his arms in an attempt to shield his head in the moment the charge exploded.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Within an instant of the phone starting to ring, Inspector Lestrade had picked it up.

"What?" his bark was impatient and caught the person on the other end by surprise, causing them to stumble over the words as they relayed their message to him. "Alright, I'll be there."

Slamming the phone down, he paused to think about that annoying fool of a man he'd come to count on too much for his liking. Sherlock was always swanning off, chasing down leads on his own, leaving Lestrade in the dark.

Stringing the police along all this time but only when it was all figured out…and then all of a sudden he fell, seemingly, off the face of the earth. For hours, nothing. Not a peep.

Alright, so he always got his man in the end, but there could be no denying that anyone who became involved with that man was always at threat for whatever reason.

And John Watson was _living_ with the asshole.

"Another explosion?" Donovan stood on the other side of the desk looking worriedly at the phone before turning to the Inspector.

"Worse." Looking up at Donovan he saw her face change to one of great worry. "Several."

"You think it's this bomber guy?"

"Possibly." He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "We won't know until we get there." He began to stride out of the office.

"So where's the freak?" He turned back to her; the half-smug smile immediately disappearing once she realised he was watching her.

"Are you going to make jokes or are you going to be useful?" She immediately avoided eye contact.

"Sorry, sir." Her reply was through gritted teeth.

Waiting to see if she had anymore to say he looked her up and down. "Alright, then. Inform Anderson. I want you both on site." And with that he left the room, his coat whipping the doorframe as he exited.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The explosions had stopped, specks of dust were still settling on the scene as John tried to process what was happening. There was no sound from the rubble and a terrible throbbing in the back of his skull told him he would be lucky not to have a concussion now. And he wasn't exactly feeling very lucky

A dull ringing pierced the air, almost like a high-pitched whistling in his ears, left by being so close to the explosion, though it wasn't deafening as he could still hear his own rapid, shallow breathing.

"Sherlock!"

His eyes were fixed on the huge pile of bricks and mortar that had moments before been a door. He paused hoping for some sign of life, a sound, some form of movement anything to indicate there was somebody alive under that…that…mess.

…

There was nothing; no movement, no voice, no sound; nothing; absolutely nothing at all.

"Sherlock!"

…

The silence was grinding; unbearable. From the first moment he'd met the reckless impulsive, insensitive idiot, the man had always been surrounded by noise. Whether it was talking or the sounds of those dangerous experiments in the kitchen, he was never quiet.

"Sherlock!"

The sound of the clattering debris still echoed around the empty room as he waited again for some form of response but nothing seemed to get through to his mind except that there was silence. Horrific, unending silence.

"Sherlock!"

His legs scrambled as the lack of movement and sound continued, while he struggled to push himself up on his arms.

"Sherlock!"

The world suddenly shifted and pain exploded in the side of his temple as his head made contact with the floor once again. Wincing, he cracked an eye open peeking down at the poolside beneath him.

A small layer of water coated the entire floor making it ridiculously hazardous.

_Brilliant(!)_

"Sherlock!" he was practically screaming as he clumsily tried to shift his weight "Answer me, you…" Finally pushing himself to his hands and knees, his head reeled and he had to stop before his stomach tried to empty itself. "…you…arrogant PRAT!"

The one of a kind, world only consulting detective was…stuck…trapped…in trouble… Hell, he was in trouble…they both were. John shook his head lightly trying to shake the clouded, foggy feeling that was slowly taking over his mind. He just needed…just a bit of time… If he could just think…

There was a gnawing feeling rising in his gut as he carefully pushed himself to his feet. "Sherlock!"

Again, his head reeled and John half-stumbled towards the wall, smashing into with his shoulder. Gasping against the pain and using the wall to prop himself up as he hobbled towards the wreck, he called out again. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

He tripped just as he reached the pile, barely noticing the graze on his hands in comparison to his growing confusion. Reaching out, he started frantically grabbing handfuls of the rubble tossing it out of the way. Handful after handful. Glass, bricks, wire; anything that was blocking his way; anything, everything, all of it was thrown aside. Splashing and clunking quickly filled the air as he grabbed as many lumps of rocks and mortar as he could, desperately hurling it behind him.

"Sherlock." John's voice had quietened, no longer having the energy to maintain his angered shouts. "Come on."

For the first time since he'd met the damn fool, John wished he could hear Sherlock saying something; something derogatory or belittling or ridiculous; something seemingly random but surprisingly relevant to their current predicament. Anything…

But there was nothing but that ever-grinding silence and the continuous sloshing of the pool water behind him.

Then, suddenly…

He stopped clawing at the rubble.

An abnormally thin pale hand stuck out from under what remained of the top of the pile.

There was a small trail of blood crossing the palm, which was facing up. The source of the bleeding wasn't immediately obvious, it could be the hand or it could be somewhere further down the arm, which was hidden beneath the rest of the rubble; there was no telling.

"Shit."

More of the mess began to be shoved, thrown, tossed, anything to move it off the fool that was trapped beneath. But John could feel the growing exhaustion pushing on the back of his brain, forcing its way down his limbs, slowly but surely hindering his progress as he continued trying to dig out his flatmate.

"This is all your fault." He could feel his mind already starting to slow as the adrenaline started to drain from his bloodstream. Each handful was gradually becoming smaller, soon he would only be grabbing at little more than dust and pebbles.

He was so exhausted and just wanted this to be over.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Most of the windows were shattered to pieces; blasted outwards with the shards spread across the ground, glinting in the mediocre light of the street lamps. A large crack ran down the North outer wall, heralding nothing but more of the same within.

Every doorway within the building appeared to be blocked with no exceptions. The only way onwards was to dig through the rubble.

Initially, there had been little effort by the small group of officers on site to venture within. If for no other reason than the place could still be rigged with explosives, set to go off as someone walked inside.

Pulling up outside the building, Lestrade spotted the small congregation of police officers stood discussing the best course of action. Getting out of the car he prepared to begin organising the team before hearing a familiar tune emerging from his mobile phone.

Sighing he slammed the car door, before reaching inside his jacket for it.

_This better be you, Sherlock._

There were two messages; one was an image, the other a voicemail.

Anderson and Donovan had moved off, setting into motion the necessities for the beginning of their investigation. So it was that Lestrade was stood alone as the voicemail played, letting out one solitary pip.

"God."

Now the bomber was sending _him_ messages.

Tentatively, he opened the picture message and he would later, unashamedly admit that what he saw caused his blood to run cold.

A deserted, serene indoor swimming pool.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Sherlock's right arm and part of his face were now exposed; dirty, dusty and bloodied as they were. Having uncovered them though, John was unsure whether he felt better or worse about the entire situation.

There didn't appear to be any troubling injuries except for two, rather deep cuts; one along the length of his forearm and another, worryingly close to his right eye. Thankfully, John had checked and there appeared to be no major damage to the actual eye but without Sherlock being conscious there was no real way of knowing.

All the while, John had continued to talk to Sherlock even though his brain was almost completely detached from what he was doing and he was fully aware that his flatmate probably couldn't hear him. It was mainly comments such as how Sherlock was not leaving him to clean up the kitchen again or other such things, all brought on by a mild sense of delirium.

Even now he was still working to get Sherlock out; that was his main aim. To be honest, what else could he do?

Yells came from one of the other entrances, the sound bouncing and echoing around the wall and John swore he would never enter a public swimming pool again, if only to avoid that harrowing echo.

"Hey!" His yell, like every word within this place, bounced off the walls and water, warping and distorting and echoing. "We're in here!"

The sounds of people sounded as though they were getting closer but John couldn't be sure any more.

"We're in here!" He turned back to the still form of Sherlock and tapped him on the face. "Wake up. They've found us. Some…someone's found us."

The voices were definitely closer now; John strained to see if he could make out any of the words but his head throbbed heavily, telling him that it was unlikely he would make much sense out of anything else for a while.

There was a clunking on the other side of the pile, bricks being shifted and moved out of the way. Looking over, blurred though his vision was, he saw a familiar shape bent over looking back at him.

"Lestrade?"

\-----------------------------------------------------

It took about ten seconds for Lestrade to look away from the doctor's battered and bruised face and find what was visible of Sherlock's in the pile of bricks at his feet.

"Shit."


End file.
